


Hands On Each Other

by notverypunkofme



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Denial, Feelings, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Size Difference, Size Kink, Zayn Is Still In 1D, this is porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/pseuds/notverypunkofme
Summary: Sometimes, you have to push really hard to get what you want.And what Zayn wants now is a little bit attention from Bressie.





	Hands On Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> There needs to be more Zessie fics, honestly. This is my first contribution. I´m planning on writing more in this verse. Enjoy :)
> 
> to my love, Alex, who is a huge inspiration to me <3

When Zayn emerges from the bathroom, Bressie is standing by the bed, mid-chat with Niall. His eyes snap towards Zayn immediately, his expression openly surprised before he manages to quickly transform it into something more neutral.

Zayn smirks to himself, shrugging on his cotton t-shirt, taking his time with the process. He slowly drags the fabric down his stomach, hoping that perhaps Bressie will get a good look.

“So, are you ready or what?” Zayn asks Niall, who is sprawled on the bed, guitar resting on his lap. He intentionally ignores Bressie, waiting for Niall to answer.

“Sure, mate,” Niall says happily, strumming his guitar mindlessly. “I’ll be ready in a sec.”

“Cool,” Zayn casually runs a hand through his already styled hair. “Meet you in the hall in ten,” he adds over his shoulder on the way out of Niall’s hotel room. It’s not easy to pretend that Bressie isn’t present since he’s always taking up a good chunk of the space. However, Bressie himself likes to overlook Zayn so why Zayn can’t do the same for once.

***

The club is full to the brim. And loud. Too many sweaty, drunk people crowded in a too small space. Zayn is kinda indifferent towards places like this. It’s not like he  _ loves  _ being squashed and pushed around by strangers, but sometimes the noise and bodies and dark can be comfortingly numbing. Easy to get yourself lost in it, to feel small and insignificant. Just another guy wanting to chill. To get laid. Maybe. 

It’s not hard to get attention with his face. People don’t have to recognise him to hit on him. To chat him up. Girls and blokes alike. Tonight, he makes it his mission; engaging in meaningless conversations, letting people touch him casually without calling them out on it. It’s because from the other side of the room, he can practically  _ feel _ Bressie’s eyes on him. 

Or is that wishful thinking. 

***

“You’re going to ruin your voice,” Zayn hears a deep rumble next to him, making him jump. He hates when someone sneaks up on him and startles him. 

Of course, he knows whose voice it is before he looks up. So, he doesn’t. Either way, it’s still Bressie next to him, as surprising as that is. They´ve been dancing around each other for months now. A weird sort of a dance. Sometimes, Zayn´s sure he's imagined all the times he caught Bressie looking at him, or the times when Bressie left room only to avoid being alone with Zayn.

Zayn shrugs, taking an unnecessarily long pull from the cigarette between his lips. 

“It’s not like we don’t do tons of things that could kill us every day.”

He can feel Bressie next to him. Imagines that he can smell Bressie's laundry detergent. His cologne mixed up with sweat.

Bressie lets out a laugh.

“Yea, you’re probably right.”

Zayn doesn’t intend to actually ask, but he says, “So why are you here, then? If you're not here to get closer to death by nicotine?” He squints somewhere behind Bressie´s shoulder to where people are crowding the little smoking area in the club´s beer garden. He doesn’t think he’s brave enough to really  _ look _ at Bressie when they are alone. Well, alone without the other lads.

It’s Bressie´s turn to shrug. “Just getting some fresh air,” he crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging prominently - and Zayn isn’t even really looking! God, Bressie’s chest is, like, massive, pecs clearly visible where his grey t-shirt is stretching the soft fabric. And Zayn never wanted to be this affected by a man he barely knows, but  _ he is _ .

Tipping his head back against the wall behind him, Zayn takes an extra care to blow out the greyish smoke as slowly as possible, hoping that if there’s even a slight chance that Bressie could fancy a bloke - fancy  _ him _ \- that along with the fresh air, he’s getting a good look at the column of Zayn’s throat and pursed lips. There’s no doubt it feels fucking weird to behave like this in front of someone who Zayn finds fit as hell, instead of flirting back with strangers he’s not interested in.

He doesn’t actually knows if this works. It’s just that he’s seen his own pictures in magazines, and knows what looks good. It’s fun, though - watching people’s reactions. 

When Zayn dares to glance sideways, he finds Bressie occupied by his mobile phone - a teeny tiny thing in his giant paws, the screen illuminating his concentrated face, tapping away and then scrolling furiously, instead of showing any interest in Zayn. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant, Zayn winces soundlessly. 

“So,” Bressie says suddenly, pocketing his phone. “How are ya finding the tour?” 

And isn't that just the weirdest question?

Zayn raises his eyebrows, amused. He's also pleased to have Bressie´s attention back. 

“Chill,” he says around the cigarette nonchalantly, giving Bressie a lazy look from under his eyelashes. The other man isn't able to hold it for long, shuffles on his feet, bits his lip with a little smile. Shit. It shouldn't be so cute, but Zayn does find it brutally attractive. He wants more of it, more of Bressie, now.

Zayn’s got everything he could ever dare to dream of, and more. Still, he’s been feeling oddly empty, alone and reckless in the most peculiar way. It’s the money, it’s the fame, they told him. Sitting with their band therapist. Maybe that makes it easier to grasp, but it's not less of a fact. 

Bressie lets out another laugh, hearty and good-natured.

“That's what you say about fifty thousand people watching you on stage most of the nights?”

“It's less,” Zayn says and Bressie chuckles in response. “Usually,” he allows then, realising that this is the first time he’s talked to Bressie like mates would, that Bressie’s letting it happen, relaxing the usual vigilance he possesses when Zayn´s around. 

“Oh, are ya good with Maths?” Bressie looks fake surprised, raising up his eyebrows comically. 

The corners of Zayn´s mouth curve up, he shakes his head. It's a terrible line.  _ If _ it's a line, he muses. 

“Actually, I was more into English.”

In the next moment, a large group of severely tipsy people pass through, one of them manages to shove into Zayn hard, sending him tumbling right onto Bressie. For a fleeting second, Zayn is almost sure he's gonna smash his nose against Bressie´s sternum. Luckily, a pair of strong arms grab him, preventing the catastrophe.  

“Sorry,” Zayn stutters, getting himself upright again. It takes Bressie a second longer than necessary to take his hands off of Zayn, while Zayn drags his eyes slowly up Bressie´s chest and neck and stubbly jaw. Unlike Bressie, he doesn't try to hide his interest -- something he usually masks with indifference.

“You alright?” Bressie asks, voice flat, already withdrawing himself, pulling away as if nothing happened.

Coward.

Zayn only nods, scratching at his eyebrow. He looks around, searching for something to concentrate on.

The awkwardness doesn’t last very long, out of nowhere Louis bounces towards them, practically jumping on Zayn's back to drag them back in, scolding them for disappearing.

Zayn jokes along, pinches Louis nipple and kisses his cheek sloppily. Bressie seems genuinely happy to answer Louis´ absolutely batshit stupid questions about rugby, and Zayn frowns from behind Louis shoulder.

For the whole night he doubles up his efforts - lets blokes chat him up and get close to him, buys drinks for pretty girls, while watching Bressie´s reactions from the corner of his eye. He thinks that Bressie can see right through that kind of facade. 

***

Sometimes, you have to push really hard to get what you want. With that on his mind, Zayn knocks on the door of Niall’s room that he’s been sharing with Bressie for the length of his visit. 

The door opens after a few moments and Zayn’s met with Bressie, all soft and sort of sleepy, in his tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, surprise clearly written all over his face.

“Hi,” he breathes out, leaning on the door with one arm.

“I- uhm, I think I’ve left my shampoo in the bathroom.”   He licks his lips and Bressie´s eyes drop to his mouth without missing a beat. 

It’s not really a lie, honestly, since Zayn did use their bathroom earlier that day.

Bressie steps away. “Oh, ok,” he says, and let's Zayn come in before shutting the door. 

Zayn makes his way through the darkened room, a lamp by Bressie’s bed the only source of light. With pounding heart, he briefly notices Niall’s sleeping body under the duvet, then disappears in the en-suite.

When he switches on the lights there he grimaces at their sharp brightness, finally letting out a long exhale. Bloody hell, he didn’t even know if Bressie would open the door. If Niall would be already asleep. Why does he come up with the stupidest ideas that he actually intends to follow through with after getting spectacularly drunk?

There’s no time for serious plotting, Bressie steps in the room only mere moments after Zayn, the door clicking shut behind him.

Zayn jumps a good few inches, hand flying to clutch at his chest to stop his heart from hammering out of his chest.

“Jesus fuck,” he swears, turning around half-way before realising who the intruder is -- snapping back to face the mirror above the white stone finish counter once he does. 

He looks pretty much how he’s feeling - eyes wide, shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his heavy breaths, pupils dilated from the shock and booze. He’s got pretty impressive bags under his eyes which - sucks. In the end none of that matters, because Bressie’s right behind him and the air is suddenly charged with this weird energy; tension, and so much more that Zayn isn’t able to describe yet. 

“Looking for the shampoo?” Bressie’s voice asks, coming from much shorter distance than Zayn anticipated, all low and gravely. Keeping his head down, he doesn’t dare to glance in the mirror to check the proximity.

“It´s not here,” he babbles, swallowing. “I must have put it - somewhere else.”

It's strange to talk to someone with your body facing away, while they can watch you. A shiver runs down Zayn's back.

Zayn doesn't even think about the lost battle when he tries to leave, turning back from the mirror towards the exit.

Only his poor attempt to flee is thwarted by Bressie who simply doesn't budge up.

Zayn grips the edge of the counter top for a second, eyes squeezing shut. It takes one little movement to find out just how far behind him is Bressie standing. Or how close.

It doesn't take more than a couple of inches to come in contact with Bressie´s chest when Zayn leans back purposefully. He can feel every intake of Bressie´s breath against his nape.

“What - what are you doing, bro?” Zayn whispers harshly, well aware of sleeping Niall just behind the door. “Is this some kind of a joke?!”

The morning before, Zayn got a new haircut; Lou trimmed the sides according to his instructions, navigating the clippers with a sure hand. Zayn´d kept his hair kinda longish for quite some time so he´s been slowly adjusting to the new style. Having the now-vulnerable back of his neck fully exposed to Bressie´s eyes makes his skin crawl. Not in an entirely unpleasant way. He tenses up to stop himself from fidgeting.

Bressie´s hand brushes against Zayn´s hip; his stomach drops.

“So I reckon that you like people watchin´ you, don't ya. You like being the centre of attention. That's why you're in the band. That's why you were showing off in front of everyone in the club.”

Zayn wants to deny it quickly, but finds himself unable to speak up. Too taken aback by this whole situation, by Bressie so close to him. By Bressie acknowledging that he actually did notice what was going on in the club. 

Yes, Zayn was showing off. But not for everyone. He was doing it to catch Bressie´s attention. Of course, without knowing that it would ever affect Bressie in any way, let alone made him act upon it. All the brief, barely existent touches Zayn had so carefully executed while passing Bressie at the bar. When going to the loo. When reaching for his new drink. Totally accidentally. 

“Well, maybe for once I wanna have a look too.”

Zayn pulls in a sharp, surprised breath, and this time his eyes snap to the mirror so quickly he's barely able to process it -- he's staring right into Bressie´s in the mirror. While Zayn has no time to take in how he might look at the moment, he can clearly see Bressie's stern face -- determined with something that Zayn can't identify, since Bressie's more of a stranger than a mate to him. 

Bressie rests his forehead on the nape of Zayn´s neck. 

“Tell me I'm reading this wrong,” he whispers into the silence, voice barely audible, aimed to the floor. 

Later, Zayn will be surprised how little it took to deliberately, with the highest level of confidence he could muster at that time, reach for the waistband of his tracksuit bottom and grab his own dick. 

Chin pointed proudly up, Zayn´s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “Ready?” The single word sounds utterly wrecked already, cracked up and rough, very similar to how Zayn´s feeling right now, even though he is ready to give  _ everything _ to cover it up.

Behind him, Bressie shuffles the last inch forward, pressing his chest against Zayn's back.

He hums appreciatively. “Eyes up, then.” 

Zayn smirks at that. He has to. It's basically the last option left here, he thinks, hiding the desperation behind cockiness. And, well, isn't he master of that?

Their eyes meet in the mirror without any preamble, and it's almost like a challenge. Who´s gonna chicken out first...

Zayn begins to stroke himself slowly, without prompting, thinking of how fucking right Bressie was. He loves attention, alright? It gives him a bloody rush every time without exception, every time they perform or do photo shoots. Press is a different topic - if it goes Zayn´s way, he chooses not to speak all that much. He's always been more of an observer. 

He'd changed into a t-shirt that he would normally sleep in - a washed out green thing with a Marvel picture printed on the front, threadbare and shrunk two sizes down from the tumble dryer. It's short enough to ride above his belly button while he keeps wanking himself, more purposeful now. The fabric only restricts his movements, so he pulls the waistband of his bottoms and pants down. For the view, he reckons, glancing at his own reflection.

“You look good,” Bressie says behind him, voice deep and hushed, as if to remind Zayn that he's still present. As if that could be forgotten. 

Zayn wants to preen under the praise. When he looks up Bressie´s eyes are fixed on his midsection, greedy, tracking the movements of his arm; sliding lower to where the head of Zayn´s cock peeks out of the curl of his wrist. 

Bressie´s cheeks are tinged pink and he looks desperate, like holding himself back, rigid against Zayn's back. 

Zayn concentrates on breathing evenly; he wouldn't want this to end too soon. He leans against Bressie more heavily, hoping it might prompt Bressie to actually do something - to reassure him that it's ok if he decides to. 

Bressie smells good, Zayn thinks fuzzily, it's driving him nuts. He's trying to keep his head clear, which proves to be mildly difficult with the amount of alcohol he´d consumed tonight.

As if sensing that Zayn might be zoning out slightly, Bressie speaks again, this time in a calm, slow voice.

“Gorgeous. You're fuckin´ hot,” he murmurs, loud enough for Zayn to hear, and his hand brushes the exposed skin on Zayn's belly, abdominal muscles jumping at the soft contact. 

Bressie´s hand stays there, fingers splayed wide, thumb brushing Zayn´s sharp hipbone - and bloody hell how is his hand so fucking large, it easily covers most of Zayn´s tummy. 

“You're perfect, sweetheart. Shit, ” Bressie says, and Zayn feels himself go warm with the sincerity of Bressie´s words.

Zayn would really, really like to be sensible and just keep quiet, but an unintentional moan makes it out of his mouth before he even notices. He flushes instantly, huffing out an annoyed sound -- he doesn't want to let Bressie know how much is this affecting him. That he's getting off on it as much as he hopes Bressie is. On the other hand, he very much  _ wants _ to show him that he's enjoying himself.

He knows he looks  _ hot _ . There's been  _ months _ of exploration when he started masturbating, amazed with what his body could do - how it can look. It only escalated with Zayn´s sexual life. And like, of course he bloody wanted to see how he looks when he comes. 

He concentrates on the feeling of a dry hand on his sensitive cock, squeezing around the dark pink head and prolonging the strokes. Tilting his head to the side and baring his neck to Bressie knowingly, he watches how his forearm muscles flex and jump.

A sudden noise of a thump comes from nowhere, cutting into the charged silence. They both freeze, Bressie´s hand flying away from Zayn´s tummy as they listen. After a few moments of complete stillness, they both decide that the noise must have come from a hall or one of the rooms around.

Zayn purses his lips in a pout, because clearly, this is going nowhere, and he's almost had enough of waiting. They are both very obviously into it (he hopes that Bressie is at least half as into it as Zayn is), so he goes back to wanking.

It´s easy to fall into a rhythm, so he doesn't wait for Bressie to catch up. Zayn´s ready to give him the show of his life. 

He grips the counter with one hand to steady himself, his right hand going back to stroking. It feels fucking good, he only wishes that Bressie would participate in this, too. 

The quiet, heavy breathing coming from behind him is lovely. And Zayn greedily drinks in the way Bressie's watching him, eyes flicking between Zayn's face and hand. His cock is not even fully in view but Bressie can’t seem to stop dropping his gaze there, eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment. 

Zayn desperately wishes that Bressie would touch him again. Like, grab him by chin and kiss him, or grope his arse, or rough him up a bit in general. It never happens, though. 

Until it does. Zayn sees from the corner of his eye Bressie´s hand move, he reaches up to brush Zayn's hair out of his face. The touch makes Zayn shiver, properly like. Shudder. 

He leans into the touch a little, eyes falling shut on their own accord as he speeds up. He didn't even notice he's started sweating until Bressie touched him. Now he can feel the dampness in under his arms and on his neck. It's starting to be too much to bear, less possible to control his own actions - the low whimpers and surprised gasps when he manages a particularly good stroke.

He starts fucking into his own fist, hips flexing, and his arse keeps bumping against Bressie´s front every time he draws back, feeling the obvious bulge of Bressie´s cock.

And he definitely moans at that, no shame. 

“Fuck, pet, this is -” Bressie groans, losing it as much as Zayn is, and he only arches the small of his back more, bowing it, resting the back of his head against Bressie´s shoulder lightly.

Bressie turns his head, unexpectedly. “Jesus,” he whispers, lips brushing against the side of Zayn´s neck. He drags them up to Zayn's ear, nuzzling the sensitive skin there.

“Fuck,” Zayn spits out, desperate to get himself to the finishing line as soon as possible, heat pooling in his belly and the bottom of his spine. “Just touch me. Touch me.”

Bressie looks beautiful and wrecked, as sweaty and as turned on as Zayn, but he won't listen. 

Zayn sways forward, bangs his fist on the top of the counter. “Touch me,” he repeats, eyes shut and he  _ wants _ . By now, he's managed to sweat through his t-shirt; it's sticking to his back uncomfortably. He makes another noise. Small and hurt. He just wants to come, badly, but needs that extra  _ something _ .

Behind him, Bressie runs his hands through his hair helplessly, eyes flicking around wildly, and then - while sucking in a shaky breath - Zayn can see the moment he gives up -  _ yes yes yes yes _ \- 

Bressie slips his giants hands past the waistbands of Zayn´s tracksuit bottoms  _ and _ pants, palming his arsecheeks roughly, squeezing. His strong fingers dig in painfully, and it's  _ so good _ .

Zayn hmmm´s deep in his throat, which accidentally comes off more like a whine. “Yes. Please,” he stutters pathetically.

“Eyes,” Bressie reminds him sternly, “eyes on me.” 

Zayn shakes himself, ready to oblige.  

Once met with Bressie´s hungry stare, Zayn couldn't look away even if he wanted to. There's so much written all over the man´s features, and it frustrates Zayn that he's unable to read it. 

His pink lips are slightly parted, nostrils flaring. He's watching Zayn watch him, and it's so hot that Zayn can barely stand it. Zayn can see himself and he's beyond any attempts at pulling any extra sexy faces, really. He's biting on his lip - has been since the beginning, probably - his forehead is crinkling, skin around his eyes pulling tight at how hard he's fighting to keep them open when all they want is to close in pleasure. 

He's going to come, he can feel it, tries to hold it back - just  _ because _ \- but Bressie decides to paw at his bum some more, massaging it while muttering things like, “So perfect, can't believe you are letting me,” which only half makes sense - a finger slides into Zayn´s crack, accidently, judging from the way they both gasp at the same time.

Zayn´s eyes go all wide and he gulps in a breath, tensing. It's impossibly dirty - letting a guy to do this to him, and  _ liking _ it.

Bressie´s ready to withdraw, reading the signals all wrong. Zayn can see the shadow of worry, of doubt, run across his face.

“Don´t -” he fumes, “don't stop touching me. Just. Please.” Zayn pants again, needy.  

Bressie makes a pleased noise in return, two of his fingertips slide back in tentatively, prodding at Zayn´s entrance, patting gently. They hold each other gazes the whole time, which is so unbelievably hot, Zayn tenses even more before finally letting go.

He literally whines, because keeping his eyes open at this point is almost impossible, but he wants to please Bressie. Everything's falling apart, he must be so noisy, but he can't do anything about it, until Bressie´s lips are suddenly on his, warm and persistent. 

He's angling Zayn´s jaw delicately with careful fingers, trying to swallow his cries. Zayn´s whining through his nose, because that can't be helped, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's praying that Niall's asleep.

He rocks through his orgasm, breaths sharp and caught in the rhythm of his pounding heart. He can't feel Bressie's hands or lips on him anymore, and all of a sudden everything feels oddly cold and too real. There's jizz like, everywhere. On Zayn's hand and clothes, and a bit on the counter.

Head still spinning and only half-aware of his body, Zayn grabs a handful of tissues from the thing by the basin, wiping the counter listlessly with one hand, tucking his dick back in his pants with the other. It's not even a conscious decision to shoulder past Bressie, who´s standing there awkwardly, and just get out of there without a word.

When Zayn gets into his room - after leaving the bathroom nearly nearly tripping over his own feet - he´s finally alone, and all his thoughts starts catching up on him, overwhelming him, making him sick. All the things he's just done. But it's not enough. He already wants more of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos very much appreciated. Come talk to me about the fic on tumblr @stylingmrstyles xx


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